The first time I planted sage
chicken was cooking on the grill-
waiting.
I add herbs to this garden of mine,
a naturalist,
I know I can make anything grow.
A little water, a little mulch,
a little background music.
The soil is damp to my touch.
I work it like clay.
The background music is soft-
then loud- a cacophony of sound
harmonized to the earth.
They are beautiful – these birds.
I modify nature, fingers work an etude
which the birds hear.
I finish a gorgeous piece of work
and close my eyes.
When I waken, they are there –
pulling up the sage in single strokes.
There is netting on the sage now,
attached over the earth
by my bleeding hands.
The chicken is on the grill –
cooking –
waiting…
Anne's mediocre poetry 